


i can sing this song so blue

by primarycolors92



Category: Glee
Genre: Death, Family, Fatherhood, Gen, Pets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-01
Updated: 2012-07-01
Packaged: 2017-11-08 22:15:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/448122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/primarycolors92/pseuds/primarycolors92
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seven months later, they have a second funeral.  </p><p>Title taken from "Lady" by Regina Spektor</p>
            </blockquote>





	i can sing this song so blue

“Daddy,” Kurt shrieks. 

The floor of the hallway is cold beneath Burt’s feet before it registers that he’s awake and running down the stairs. 

“What is it, Kurt?” he asks, a little gruffly, because the clock on the wall says 5:23 am and Burt honestly cannot be responsible for killing _every_ spider. 

“It’s Felix,” Kurt says, voice muffled by the hand pressed against his mouth. Kurt points his free hand towards the corner, where a pile of grey hair is resting in the corner and—oh. 

Oh _fuck_. 

“He’s not breathing,” Kurt whimpers from behind his hand, and _fuck_. 

“Are you sure?” Burt asks, wincing at his own question. Kurt nods emphatically, hair flopping up and down above eyes about two sizes too big for his face. 

Burt swallows back his grimace of distaste and cautiously approaches the corner, half-expecting the pile of hair to leap up and hiss in his face at any moment. It does not, and it’s the lack of hostility more than the lack of a heartbeat that truly convinces Burt the creature is dead. 

Kurt lets out a, well, a _squeak_ of despair, and Burt feels the weary anger settling deep into his stomach. If the world wants to stop shitting on his kid any day now, that would be just great. 

“I’m so sorry, kiddo. I know how much you loved that cat.” 

“He was mom’s cat,” Kurt says, sounding a little angry and a lot purposeful, and it sets Burt’s heart at ease as much as it sets his mind to worrying. “He needs a funeral.” Kurt sticks his lower lip as far out as it can go, bracing for a fight. 

“We’d have to do it in the backyard,” Burt says, waiting for Kurt’s nod of concession before he continues. “And we have to get it done today.” 

Kurt’s eyes wander to the cat’s body, still lying in the corner, before locking back onto Burt’s. “I’ll need time to decorate the casket.” 

Burt nods, mostly to himself. “I’ll get you a shoebox.” Kurt’s lips wobble, just for a second, and Burt’s chest feels so tight it might implode. “How about we do it tonight, before it gets dark? That work for you?” 

“But how will we invite people in time? It can’t be just us!” 

“Kurt…” Burt fights back a sigh, struggling for the best words to explain to Kurt that nobody’s going to come attend the funeral of their old, mean cat. 

“It can’t be just us! It _can’t_!” Kurt actually stomps his foot, fists clenched and face flushed a deep pink. 

Burt thinks of the lines of people at his wife’s funeral, hugging Kurt and touching his hair and attempting to cajole him into eating the food. 

“I’ll see if I can get someone from the garage to come,” Burt says, trying to remember exactly who was working today. “And I’ll get you that shoebox.” 

“Thanks dad,” Kurt says, sweet and subdued now that he’s won his battle, and suddenly Burt can’t look at his son’s face without wanting to completely fall apart. 

“C’mere kiddo,” he says, and it isn’t until he has his arms folded around Kurt that he feels like he can breathe. 

 

“Hummel Tires and Lube,” Joe says. Burt decides that now is not the best time to remind Joe that he’s supposed to give his name when he answers the phone. 

“Hey, Joe, how’s it going?”

“Oh hi, boss, we’re all good here.” 

“Great.” Burt steels himself. “I need a favor, Joe. You’ll be on the clock the whole time, I promise.” 

“Everything okay?” 

“The, uh, the cat died.” 

“That ugly mop-colored thing? I had no idea it was still around.”

“Not anymore,” Burt says, a little harsher than he means to. “Kurt found it this morning.” 

“Aw, shit.” 

“Yeah,” Burt agrees with feeling. “Anyway, I was hoping you could leave the garage like an hour early and come over to the house for the funeral.” 

Joe doesn’t respond for a few long, painful seconds. “You’re having a funeral? For the mop cat?” 

“Kurt insisted,” Burt says, and he lets everything behind that go implied. 

“I… yeah, okay, I’ll be there. At the funeral. For your cat.” 

“Thank you.” And maybe Burt lets a little too much feeling slip into those two words, because Joe sounds uncomfortable all throughout their goodbyes. 

 

Kurt is spread out over the kitchen table, bottles of glue and glitter and sheets of colored paper littered everywhere. 

“How’s it going?” Kurt looks up, startled. 

“It’s good. I’m almost done.” 

“Great. Joe said he’s coming, so…” Burt doesn’t know how to ask if that’s good enough without making it sound like a consolation prize. 

“Great,” Kurt echoes. “Dad, can you, ah, can you take care of the grave?” 

Burt thinks of the still-frozen ground outside and bites back a groan. “Yeah, sure. I’ll go find a shovel right now.” 

“Thanks, dad,” Kurt says, turning back to his box of rhinestones with intense concentration. 

 

Joe arrives just as Burt is finishing the task of gingerly placing the cat’s stiff body into the modified shoebox. The casket’s unusually somber for Kurt’s sensibilities, meaning it’s only about 70% covered in purple glitter. 

“Hi,” Joe says, shrugging awkwardly from the front stoop. 

“Hey.” Burt fights the urge to thank him again. “Come on in.” 

Kurt is sitting in the living room, staring forlornly at the now empty corner where he found the cat. He’s wearing a dark green suit and a black bowtie. 

“Hi Joe,” he says. 

“Hey kid. Sorry I didn’t have time to change into a suit.” 

“That’s okay,” Kurt replies with a wan smile. “It’s not black tie or anything.” 

“Right,” Joe says, face and voice carefully neutral. 

“You ready to do this, kiddo?” Burt asks, wiping his hands off on his jeans. Kurt nods and the three of them troop outside, shoebox casket resting beneath Burt’s arm. 

Burt places the box delicately into the hole, keeping one eye on Kurt the whole time. 

“Do you want to say some words, or should I?” Kurt shrugs and stays silent. Burt panics a little bit; he really, truly hated that cat. 

“Felix was a very clean, quiet cat,” he lies. “Very respectful.” 

“He loved to listen to mom sing,” Kurt adds, leaning in towards Burt. 

“Yeah. Yeah he did.” Burt swallows against the rock trapped in his throat and wraps his arm around Kurt’s shoulder. “He loved her a lot.” 

There’s a moment of silence, the three of them staring at rhinestone stripes of the casket, until Kurt mutters, “Okay.” 

Burt goes first, collecting a handful of dirt and dropping it gently into the hole. Kurt follows him, chin set in a sharp line and eyes resolutely dry. Joe goes last, hesitating as he walks past the shovel. 

“I can take care of filling it in, if the two of you want to go inside,” he offers. 

Burt glances at the tips of his son’s ears, red with early-spring cold. “That sounds good, thanks. Why don’t you head in and I’ll be right there, okay buddy?” 

Kurt nods, flashing a quick smile at Joe before he turns and walks into the house. 

“Can I get you a beer or anything before you go?” Burt asks. Joes shakes his head. 

“No thanks, man. Just go and be with your kid.” 

“Yeah,” Burt says, eyes wandering towards the house. “You’re a good man, Joe.” 

“Thanks,” Joe says. He looks at Burt like his opinion matters. 

Burt sets his shoulders, smoothing over the rough edges of everything he feels so deeply ill-equipped to handle, and goes back inside.


End file.
